


Time Heals Nothing

by AnxiousCoffee (TheHallowedAngel)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bed-Wetting, Brotherly Love, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nausea, Night Terrors, Nightmares, No Incest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Siblings, Tags May Change, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21528502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHallowedAngel/pseuds/AnxiousCoffee
Summary: Tommy struggles with very graphic nightmares and night terrors and John is the only one who knows how to help.Everything I know about PTSD is from my own experience and from the three years I studied psychology for, this is by no means the exact way it effects everyone.Later chapters may contain spoilers, but they will be clearly labeled.
Relationships: John Shelby & Tommy Shelby
Comments: 13
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will say it again, my depictions of PTSD and night terrors/nightmares in this story are by no means the only way they effect everyone, they're just drawn from my own experiences and from the knowledge I gained through studying psychology for three years.
> 
> This is a heavy fic, themes of war, self hate, survivor guilt, self harm, and suicide. It also contains semi-graphic descriptions of nausea and vomiting. If those topics are triggering for you then don't read, and if you don't like the story then just ignore it, scroll past. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy, and thanks for taking the time to read this.

The first time John saw one of the night terrors it actually changed his life. It would actually be more accurate to say 'first _heard_ ', because it was the screaming that dragged him awake and shook him to his feet.

He couldn't pinpoint it at first, his mind going to a drunkard outside or Arthur causing a scene downstairs before he even concidered Tommy, but the strangled sob and desperate "they're coming through!" that followed on the end told him once and for all exactly where it came from.

_Thomas_.

It took only three strides to reach his door and then five more to get to Tommy's, but then there was the mountain to climb as he fought with himself, hand on the handle and heart in his throat.

If he opened the door it was happening, Tommy wasn't this perfect, emotionless machine John had created in his head, but if he walked away now he could pretend he knew nothing and his big brother was as strong as always.

But there was no way he could have left him like that, and another cry had torn from Tommy's chest as John turned the handle and pushed open the door.

The blankets were on the floor and the sheets underneath Tommy were drenched in sweat, or what John in the moment had hoped was not urine but later had reasoned likely was. Tommy's shirt was bunched up around the bottom of his ribs where it had ridden up, maybe from hands grabbing at it or from the thrashing around, and his face was the colour of day-old-snow. His fists were tangled in the sheets, gripping so tight his knuckled had turned white for the lack of blood.

John could see his eyes darting around under the lids as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, mouth working without any real sound leaving it, and he saw tears running from Tommy's eyes.

He also saw the thick, white lines that cut across Tommy's arms, scars Tommy had put there himself with a razor blade or a knife or whatever sharp thing he could get hold of in the moment- they stood out against his arms in the moonlight, the only thing lighting up the room for lack of a working lamp John could have turned on. 

And there was a moment, just one, between that first step into the room and the sound of the door closing, where John wanted to cry too.

It was a moment in which Tommy had whimpered, a moment in which Tommy _fucking_ Shelby whimpered like a wounded animal and John felt his heart damn near stop because never in his life had he heard his older brother make a sound that pitiful.

He needed to suck it up.

John took another step and as Tommy writhed some more he wondered how no one else had heard. There was Arthur's room between his and Tommy's and Aunt Pol was the lightest sleeper known to the human race, and yet he was the only one who heard?

_Or was he just the only one to react?_

No, there was no way the two of them just ignored this, John refused to believe it. His aunt was far more compassionate than she let people know, and Arthur wouldn't leave Tommy like this, maybe he was just meant to be the one to hear and help.

John told himself that as he took Tommy by the shoulders and shook him roughly, dodging the flail of limbs and the barrel of a gun as Tommy shot up, eyes suddenly open and very panicked.

“Jesus, Tommy, it's me!" he said, but Tommy's eyes looked too far away and the hand around the revolver shook so hard the gun fell right out of his fingers; he realised that nothing Tommy was seeing or hearing was getting through right now.

“Tommy, hey, it's John! Tommy It's John-boy, come on," he took Tommy's hand in both of his and crouched to look up at him, something he regretted when he was almost a second too slow to avoid the mouthful of whiskey and bread that splattered against the floor between his feet.

Tommy was still panting as he heaved and brought up something more substantial onto the sheets and himself, something brown and yellow and red all mixed in. It washed over Tommy's legs and soaked through his underwear and stuck the fabric to his skin, and John released his hand in favour of bracing an arm across Tommy's chest and around the back of his shoulders as he swayed over his lap.

There was still very little awareness in Tommy's eyes, very little strength in him at all, but the life seemed to seep back into him as John pulled him into a hug that pressed the side of his head into John's bare stomach.

After that he just cried. He just cried and hiccued and clung to John like it was the only thing keeping him alive. And it had been, really, though John hadn't realised at the time.

“I should have died there," was the first thing Tommy said, and John knew how he felt, having watched hundred of men drop to the ground around him and not able to have done anything about it.

“It came back with me" he had said, words garbled and weak, “There's mud in my ears, John, and I can't get it out."

John could only nod and shush him gently, hot tears rolling over his own cheeks as he just rocked side to side on his feet, and Tommy just kept talking nonsense he couldn't stand to hear but couldn't ignore.

Tommy talked about the shovels that dig through his bedroom walls while he slept. He talked about the faces he sees in storm drains and out of the corners of his eyes. He talked about the way he blinks sometimes and sees dirt all over his hands for a second or two. And he talked about the way the war followed him home, how it creeps along behind him and worms its way into every dream he has.

That was the first time John saw Tommy's Night terrors, and it was the last time he ever slept without being grateful for it.

It took almost two hours to get Tommy washed and changed, and neither of them went back to bed that night. Nor did they say another word, because too much had been said already.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a few days but John felt just as small as he had the first time. In fact, he was convinced he was barely two inches tall as he stood and forced his legs to hold him up. His knees wanted to buckle and his feet didn't want to move, but purely out of spite he got all the way to his bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no vomiting in this one, but there's a lot more angst. Trigger warning for self injury at the start (not necessarily with a SH kind of intention, but even so)
> 
> Thank you to AmmoHasTooManyFandoms for beta-ing this fic, and for always listening to my senseless thoughts about the idiot Shelby brothers 🥰❤️

The second time was a little harder to deal with.

John himself had just woken from a hellish dream. He was being chased by men with clubs and guns, children with bits of wood with bent nails sticking out of them, and his own brothers with their caps clutched in their hands.

He didn't know what he'd done, he just remembered the fear. He remembered the sound of his own heart echoing in his head, and the sound of boots hitting the earth thundering from behind him.

Now John was just sat on his bed, staring at the flat cap in his hand. He flipped up the rim and watched the blade catch the light shining through his window, glinting in a way that made him feel sick.

John held very little guilt over what he had done with that razor. It was work, and work got done whether you felt good about it or not. But watching it shine with a slight tint, though, the colour of blood that hadn't quite been washed off enough, made him take hold of the thing and tear it straight out of the cap.

Something sinister in his head told him to do it, run the tip of his finger over the edge, and John caught himself doing it without a second thought. With a hiss, he threw the blade across the room and pressed the bleeding bed of his index finger to his trousers.

But then the sound of Tommy groaning ran down the hallway and John forgot about the pain immediately. 

It had been a few days but John felt just as small as he had the first time. In fact, he was convinced he was barely two inches tall as he stood and forced his legs to hold him up. His knees wanted to buckle and his feet didn't want to move, but purely out of spite he got all the way to his bedroom door.

His breath caught halfway up his throat as the palm of his hand made contact with the metal of his door handle, shaking as he turned it. John was met by the sight of Arthur lent against his own doorframe, staring at the floor with a soft sort of melancholy etched into his face. 

"What are you doing?" John spoke as quiet as he could manage. 

"You don't have to whisper, John, talking won't wake him up." Arthur let his eyes slip over to John, folded arms across his chest loosening so he could reach into his room with one hand and grab his cigarettes. He tilted the open packet towards John, but John refused. 

"Why aren't you helping him?" he asked instead, ignoring Arthur's advice about the volume of his voice. Arthur just sighed. 

"Coddling him isn't going to make this all go away, John. His brain is full of mud." Arthur trailed off, taking a few seconds to light a cigarette before he spoke again. 

"You wouldn't understand, you didn't see what he saw."

"You didn't either, Arthur, but we all went to war. You can't just decide he's better off on his own, you've gotta try and help." now John was raising his voice, and he turned behind himself to look at Aunt Poll's room and shouted towards it that he knew she was awake, and listening, too. 

There was a renewed sense of purpose to the next steps he took. He was the only one of Tommy's family that would help him, so John was going to do the best job he could. 

But what he hadn't noticed, during his exchange with Arthur, was that the struggling from Thomas's room had died down. John didn't actually notice until he opened the door and saw Tommy, panting and sweaty and eyes unfocused, staring at the ground in front of him the same way he had looked at John before. 

Like he wasn't seeing the real thing. 

John let the door close behind him, helping it along with a kick, and just stood there. Because he realised- Tommy was looking at him now.

"Are you okay?" John asked, and Tommy almost scoffed. He almost didn't answer, but the way John was watching him made him feel weak for not saying anything.

"They beat the sun, John." Despite the hard edge to his eyes, Tommy's voice was weak, wavering.

"Who did, Tommy?"

"The other side. The other bad guys. They won again," Tommy paused, breathed, and then added, "They always win."

"The other bad guys? There's only one set of bad guys, Tommy. We fought for the good side, remember?" Even as John said it, he knew he was convincing himself more than his brother.

Once again, Tommy wanted to scoff. 

He'd always known John was more of an optimist than any of the rest of them. But Tommy hadn't realised he was still so stuck on the idea of good and bad sides. 

Tommy knew he should just leave it. He shouldn't ruin John's hope of being clean. But he couldn't help it. 

"No, John, don't you get it? You're never the villain in your own story. Maybe it helps you sleep at night to think you're the hero, but we still killed people. We killed people just as scared as we were, John. There's no heroes in war."

For a while, the room was silent. Tommy let his eyes slip away from John, just staring into the corner of the room. John was staring at the floor in front of his feet, fiddling with the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

Tommy was the one to break the tension.

"Go back to bed, John. Leave me be, yeah?"

"I'm not evil, Tommy," John finally found the courage to look back up at him, and Tommy seemed taken aback.

"That's not what I meant. You can be a good man and make bad choices."

When John didn't respond, just staring and thinking, Tommy sighed. 

"Please go back to bed, John."

"You're not evil either, Tommy, you hear?"

Now it was Tommy's turn to stare, but there was more conflict in his gaze than anything else.

He wanted to yell. He wanted to shout and throw things and set John straight. Because Tommy wasn't anything but evil, he hadn't thought of himself as anything different in far too long. So he just buried it all, like always. 

He was too tired to start fights tonight. 

"Go back to bed, I won't ask again. You should take a lesson from Arthur and Aunt Pol."

John didn't know how to take that one.


End file.
